


Battle of the Century

by Meltha



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M, basement fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-02
Updated: 2011-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-26 18:44:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meltha/pseuds/Meltha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xander and Spike get into arguments over the strangest things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Battle of the Century

**Author's Note:**

  * For [secondalto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondalto/gifts).



> Disclaimer: All characters are owned by Mutant Enemy (Joss Whedon), a wonderfully creative company whose characters I have borrowed for a completely profit-free flight of fancy. Kindly do not sue me, please, as I am terrified of you. Thank you.
> 
> Written for the second Xander round at maleslashminis, for secondalto, who wanted Spike/Xander, patrolling, snark/banter, and music. Essentially, Anya doesn't exist in this.

Working as a pizza delivery boy is not conducive to keeping hours that resemble those of an actual human being. Neither, for that matter, is having a vampire living in my basement and mocking me intermittently throughout the day while I’m trying to sleep. Isn’t he supposed to be snoring along at noon? That’s what Giles’s books always said, but sometimes I think they make up half the stuff in there. Like, really, if Spike is 200, he been bathing in some awfully nifty Oil of Olay the last two centuries or so.

I am not thinking about Spike bathing. I am just making a point. And why do I feel like I have to defend myself in my own stupid inner monologue? It’s not like he can hear what’s going on inside my head, especially not when he’s watching Bugs Bunny at eardrum splitting decibels on the couch eight feet away. I’ll even prove it to myself. As an experiment, I’m going to imagine Spike naked, just so I can show that there’s no way he knows what’s going on inside my own brain…

Okay, the fact that he looked over here and smirked for no apparent reason just then is, I admit, unsettling, but still, that is not proof of his psychic abilities. Wait… what if Drusilla taught him stuff? Now that’s just dumb. There is no way he can read minds or else the Initiative would never have gotten their hands on him. Man, being trapped in an ultra-compact car with the odor of anchovies seeping into every one of my pores is warping what little brain I have left.

“Xander, be a love and get us some more crisps, eh?” he says as he throws an empty bag on the floor, scattering fifty bazillion tiny crumbs all over the place, which will undoubtedly draw thousands of ants into the basement.

Oh well. I suppose it’ll give the spiders something to eat. They’ve been looking kinda Kate Moss-ish.

“Get them yourself. No, wait, on second thought, don’t get them. When you pay for them, preferably with money not gotten by mugging little old ladies, eat all the chips you want. And that’s what they are: chips. Not crisps. Learn to speak American,” I say in a decently annoyed voice.

He’s laughing, of course.

“A chip to me is what you lot call a french fry,” he says condescendingly, “which is plain silly. Think about it. Crisps are, in fact, crisp. The name makes sense. A chip, or fry, is a big chip off a potato. That also makes sense. France, on the other hand, had nothing to do with creating them, and therefore, calling them french makes no sense, once again proving the cultural superiority of the Brits.”

“Junk food isn’t a good way of measuring culture, pal,” I say immediately.

“Oh yeah?” he replies, deigning to look over his shoulder at me while Bugs manages to make Elmer Fudd blow up his rifle in his own face. “Then why do you call Twinkies, and I quote your conversation with Willow last night on patrol, the ‘supreme achievement of mankind’?”

You know, I always feel sort of bad for Elmer. He never sees that his own weapon is going to wind up blowing him to bits. I can empathize, I guess.

“Yeah, well, Twinkies are different,” I say defensively. “They’re the food of the gods…”

And I stop mid-sentence, because suddenly I’m remembering Ampata, and I know that probably wasn’t even her real name. I haven’t thought of her in maybe a year or so, and I’m immediately feeling guilty over that. She was… well, “nice” might not be the right word to use what with the killings via massive dehydration, but she was nice to me.

“Why the bleeding hell do Twinkies depress you?” Spike says, staring at me like I’m growing arms out of my head.

I check surreptitiously to make sure I’m not. This is the Hellmouth. You never know.

“What makes you think I’m depressed?” I say, trying to blow it off. “I’m not, obviously.”

Spike is rolling his eyes in one of his patented humans-are-idiots expressions before saying, “Vampire, remember?”

“Half a vamp, more like,” I say.

“Whatever, and, as I’m sure you recall from the thousands of thousands of books in Tweedman’s personal library, we have increased senses,” he points out as though I’m two. “I can smell it radiating off you.”

“You can smell emotions?” I ask. I really don’t remember reading that anywhere in Giles’s books. Then again, I avoid the books as much as possible after that Latin and fire thing. I’m more of a picture guy now.

“Only the ones pertinent to a hunt,” Spike says. “Things that draw a vampire, that mark a human as a ripe target for a quick bite. Things like depression, fear, or…”

And he pauses. I know what he’s about to say.

“…lust.”

Yep. That would have been my guess, and in that particular tone where his tongue sort of wraps around the u and flicks over his teeth completely unnecessarily. He really shouldn’t be allowed to do that.

“Right, whatever,” is my oh-so-brilliant retort. Hey, you try coming up with a brilliant rejoinder when Spike’s staring at you like that. It ain’t as easy as it looks. Or sounds. Or something.

“Exactly,” Spike says, and he’s still staring at me. “Like I can smell on you every time I catch you looking my way.”

“Oh, please!” I yell, and it’s too high to sound incredibly masculine. “As if! How do you know it’s not something else that’s turning me on that’s in your general direction?”

“Like what? Bugs Bunny dressed as Carmen Miranda?” he says, gesturing towards the screen. “If that’s the case, mate, you’ve got bigger problems than I thought, and that’s saying something.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know Carmen Miranda was a damn fine looking woman,” I say, pointing my finger at him accusingly. “Maybe I just like fruit.”

I’m hearing myself saying this and cringing. That was the most pathetic comeback I’ve ever shot.

“That was the most pathetic comeback you’ve ever shot, Xander,” Spike says, and I swear, he’s giggling. “Deal with it. You think the occasional naughty thought about me.”

“I do not,” I say firmly. “You’re confusing lust with repulsion or something.”

“Course I am,” Spike says sarcastically. “Like with Willow and Tara. Nothing at all going on there.”

“I… what?” I say, completely confused.

“Oh, come on!” he yells, voice filled with derision. “Those two birds have been shagging for weeks! Not one of you has cottoned on to that yet?”

“They’re friends, Spike,” I say slowly and clearly. “That’s all. You wouldn’t know anything about that, though, seeing as you’re a friendless, homeless, penniless, powerless, impotent loser.”

“They are, and it takes one to know one, Harris,” he says, pouting for all the world as though that last bit had actually hurt him, and turning back to the TV, where Bugs is now singing opera. I have never before realized how incredibly trippy Bugs Bunny is. Also, Spike is sulking like a woman.

I will not feel guilty for teasing the psychopathic murderer. At all. Of course, on the other hand, he might steal all my pants again…

I hit him in the back of the head with a Twinkie.

“Eat that and enjoy the taste of the U.S. of A,” I say, unwrapping another one for myself, “and move your head. You’re blocking Bugs’s aria.”

He snorts at the Twinkie, the vulgarian, but I hear the telltale crinkle of cellophane. Yeah, that’s right, Big Bad, no one can resist the power of cream filling and yellow sponge cake. Personally, that’s what I wanted to attack the Mayor with, but after Oz made that hummus crack, it seemed kind of redundant to bring it up.

Oz has been gone quite a while now.

Willow seems sort of… not lonely anymore.

Nah. I’d know.

Wouldn’t I?

“Seriously?” I ask, and my mouth so did not ask my brain permission to say that.

“Yes, seriously, Xander, you are indeed at least as big a loser as I am,” Spike says, though it sounds remarkably less barbed when he is saying it with a mouth full of Twinkie.

“Not that, and you’re wrong,” I say, though I’m not really sure he is when you get down to it. “Willow and Tara.”

Spike turns around again, and he’s got that gleam in his eye, the one that used to be just scary but now is sort of… sexy, I guess.

“I’m beginning to understand how this town still hasn’t realized it’s on a Hellmouth. You’ve raised denial to a bloody art,” he says, then crams the rest of the Twinkie in his mouth and chews it while grinning.

I don’t know what’s more disturbing: that my best friend is into chicks and I didn’t know, or that Spike chewing a Twinkie is making me think it’s very, very warm in here.

“Sniff, sniff,” he says deliberately.

“Yeah, well, you seem to have enjoyed the goodness of Twinkies quite thoroughly,” I say, trying to seize on familiar ground. “The Queen has nothing on that.”

“You’ve never had a Cadbury Flake, I take it,” Spike says, regarding the empty wrapper critically.

“No,” I admit.

“Uncivilized palate,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “These aren’t bad, but they aren’t perfection either.”

“I claim foul,” I say immediately. “You can’t base your argument off stuff I’ve never even eaten.”

“Fine,” Spike shoots back, suddenly deadly serious, “if you don’t want sweets to represent culture, then let’s talk about music. Any country that produced the Backstreet Boys and Britney Spears does not get to own the title to cultural superiority in anything.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I shout, and I’ve just bounded over the back of the couch in one movement. “You do not judge American music from the bottom of the barrel! England’s had plenty of crummy musical acts.”

“Such as?” he says.

“Spice Girls ringing a bell?” I say, giving him a dirty look. “They should have been enough reason to start another war with you guys.”

He actually appears to be considering what I’m saying.

“Alright, I’ll grant you the Spice Girls were bloody awful, though that Ginger bird had a stunning rack,” he says, nodding as though he’s actually rather embarrassed that England produced them. “But we had the Beatles, and that gives us an all time get out of jail free card.”

“Yeah, well, Elvis came first,” I say, “and he’s the king.”

“You’re not seriously comparing the Fab Four and King Tubby!” Spike spits out.

“Hey!” I say, getting enraged. “Show a little respect! Besides, Elvis could totally have taken the Beatles in a fight.”

“Ringo, maybe,” he admits, “but John alone would have kicked his arse into next week.”

“Lennon was a pacifist!” I yell. “There is no way he would have beat Elvis!”

“Please!” he says, getting right in my face. “I knew Lennon, and believe me when I say that man could have head-butted Elvis right back into Tupelo!”

“Oh right, you knew John Lennon!” I holler at him, getting even more in his face. “What’s next? Billy Idol got the look off of you?”

“He did!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Did not!”

“So did!”

“Liar!”

“Wanker!”

“Emasculated, smelly corpse!”

“Pizza delivery boy!”

Oh, now that one did it. I’ve jumped him and knocked him off the couch and onto the rug, the empty potato chip bag crackling loudly underneath him, before I even know what I’m doing. I’m pummeling him over the head with one of the cushions, smacking him repeatedly as he’s all but screaming, a flood of words coming out of my mouth, among them “show off,” “ingrate,” “barbarian,” and “bleach brain.” In the middle of all this, I’m suddenly aware that Spike is actually really screaming, like he’s in serious pain, and it’s not until now that I remember the chip.

Aw, hell. The chip.

I freeze like my mom just walked in the room while I was reading Playboy, and I throw the cushion away because obviously this whole incident is its fault. Spike’s stopped screaming, but now he’s got his hand on his forehead, and he’s whimpering. I know that’s not a sound he’d be making if he had the least amount of control. He’s got to be in really bad pain.

I think about saying I’m sorry, but the words stick halfway up my throat. Instead, I get up, go over to the fridge, and take out an ice pack that’s seen plenty of service post-patrol over the last three years. I wrap it in one of the clean towels, then crouch down next to him on the floor and put it, carefully, on his head. He hisses a little, but his hand flies up to grab the towel. His eyes squint open, and the look he’s giving me is not even close to grateful, but it does seem at least minorly non-killer-y.

I sit there for a while, him still laying on the floor, the TV blaring a Foghorn Leghorn cartoon, and suddenly it seems way too loud, so I put it on mute. Spike groans a little, and then he scares the heck out of me by grabbing my shoulder and using me as a brace to pull himself back up. He’s leaning against my side, panting a little, and I can feel the air on my neck. Isn’t his breath supposed to be cold? Why’s it so warm? Warm and moist…

If he was serious about being able to sense lust, he’s sure got a snootful right now.

“Well,” I tell him as he starts to come around, “I’d say that’s one time the American beat the Englishman.”

“We’re only on round one,” he says, but his voice is really weak, and why is that freaking me out so much? I hate this guy. Right? Brain, this would be when you should respond with a resounding “RIGHT!” so why am I not getting anything but a busy tone?

“Yeah, well, let’s leave it at one round for now, okay?” I say. “I’d rather not have to vacuum tonight.”

“Pansy,” he says, which is really kind of ridiculous coming from a guy who’s grabbing my shoulder to keep from falling over.

At least I think that’s why he has his arm around me.

As I’m sitting there, a thought suddenly occurs to me.

“How did you know what I said to Willow about Twinkies on patrol last night?” I ask.

It’s a fair question. He was supposed to be here in the basement, probably causing mayhem with the dryer sheets or short sheeting my pullout cot of death or something.

“I’m a predator, Xander,” he says quietly. “Did you really think I couldn’t follow you lot if I had a mind to?”

“Why would you even want to, though?” I ask.

He shrugs uncomfortably, and I have this sudden image of him being actually lonely and maybe following along behind because maybe we’re the only things he’s got that are even close to friends. Dang. Why does that seem depressing?

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, there you go again,” he says, glaring at me. “Don’t you dare go getting all maudlin over me. It’s making me hungry.”

I shake my head and go to stand up, but his hand on my shoulder is surprisingly firm for a vampire who can’t hurt anyone without Molotov cocktails going off inside his noggin.

“Mind staying for just a minute, luv?” he asks. “I’ve not quite got my sea legs back, and I’d rather not topple back to the floor again.”

“Yeah,” I agree, and why does my mouth keep not checking with my brain? “Okay.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles into my shoulder.

“Spike,” I say after a minute, “just so you know, the Beatles were really good.”

“Obviously,” he says, then pauses before adding in a voice that sounds like it pains him to admit this. “I suppose old King of the Velvet Paintings wasn’t half bad either.”

Believe it or not, we wind up falling asleep in front of the television, but when I get up the next day, bright and early at 1:00 in the afternoon, he doesn’t give me any grief about it, just goes on watching an old rerun of “The Munsters” and rolling his eyes in all the appropriately kitschy places.

When I come home from work that night, Spike’s nowhere in sight, but on the couch is a yellow candy-bar looking thing, only the ends are twisted like they would be on a cough drop wrapper or something. There’s a note next to it in surprisingly legible handwriting:

Eat and learn. S.

I gotta admit, he wasn’t wrong about Cadbury Flakes.

But Elvis still so would have taken John Lennon.


End file.
